Blood and Ice and Fire
by MrWanted Outlaw John
Summary: Three souls born intertwined. One born of Blood, to conquor by steel the realms of men. One born of Ice, to stand before the shadow and darkness that preys on the dawn. One born of Fire, to burn all that may remain.
1. Chapter 1: Aego

**Blood and Fire and Ice**

 **Chapter 1**

Aego

"We should not go there," Najaho said, shifting nervously on his golden haired stallion; the beast trembled under the weight of his uncertainty, but like a true master rider, he quelled its fears with a simple squeeze of his thighs. His own fears could not be so easily assuaged. "The dead Valyrian cities are to be avoided; the Valyrians were destroyed by their own magic. We will find nothing but sand, ghosts and bones!"

Aego, riding just ahead of his faithful rider, allowed himself an amused smirk. "Vaes Tolorro," he said, naming the abandoned city in the distance in their harsh tongue and mocking Najaho's cowardice.

Asavva, riding beside Najaho and Kovarro, spat into the red sands. The day had been unforgivingly hot; the sun had stood over them like the eye of angry god, baking the sands of the Red Waste and making the hundred riders that followed Aego regret their decision to follow him. Of course, none dared to utter a word of disagreement. His arakh was much sharper than his tongue, and his tongue was sharp enough. "Najaho, you're a coward! Aego is strongest. We follow him where he goes."

Najaho growled at her. "Shut up, woman. Aego fears nothing; he is descended from the Valyrians themselves. He has nothing to fear. The ghosts will follow us back to the khalasar and reek havoc on us."

Aego tensed; his black stallion, Shierak, stopped on a dime and turned him to face Najaho. Najaho was a giant, almost a full head larger than Aego, but he flinched. For it could not be denied that Aego was a son of the Valyrians. His features were sharp, as if chiseled from stone. His eyes were a stunning purple that glowed, like molten magic. His hair was like spun silver, and it was tied into a tight braid that tickled his upper buttocks.

"Enough you coward," Aego spat. "If you don't want to come, leave your horse and arakh and make your way back."

Najaho grumbled under his breath and looked away. Aego continued on. The Dothraki were a simple people; to them, the strongest man would always rule. Many a man in the khalasar, even those in his own little kha of one hundred riders, hated the sight of him. They said often that he was cursed. As a child, his father, a Valyrian who claimed to descend from the Westerosi kings, had kept him alive. Since his father's passing, many had tried their hand at taking his life. All had failed; his braid had grown longer with each victory.

Kovarro, who was smaller and thinner than Najaho with hawk-eyes and cruel beard, doubted him next. "Najaho does have a point. Why venture there? We will find nothing worth taking and risk the wrath of the Valyrian gods."

Aego repressed a growl; Kovarro was not so easily cowed. "The Qaathi caravan will pass through here. It is the chance we've been looking for to ambush them."

The three of them perked up suddenly; even Najaho stopped his sulking at the thought of that possible plunder. They had been roaming the waste for nearly a week now, looking for a target. It had come in the form of a massive caravan from Qarth, numbering almost five hundred. It had been too well guarded for their mere one hundred to take it in open combat. So they had stalked it quietly.

Aego did not know what had drawn him to the waste; the Lhazar was not much farther from where they had started, and it was much more fertile with cities to take. His instincts had proven him right. The caravan had ten massive closed carriages, no doubt filled with treasures from the far east. It would be a haul that their khalasar of one thousand had not seen since earlier days, when they had been feared on the plains.

The city was just as Najaho had imagined it. A city of bones. The walls that the Valyrians had built were still standing, even after hundreds of years of desolation. This must have been one of their farthest east outposts. The white walls were stained the color of blood by constant beating from the red sands. The wind hollowed angrily and, just for a moment, Aego imagined that he had indeed awakened the sleeping ghosts of Old Valryia. He crushed that thought quickly beneath his heel; his father would have beaten him for thinking such craven thoughts. We are descended from dragons, he would say, the sheep and horses alike fear us.

"Kovarro, come with me. We'll inspect it."

They left Asavva and Najaho in charge of the kha and slipped into the coffin city. Unlike the bare trails that could be sparsely found in the waste and the Lhazar and the Dothraki plains, the roads were made of some stone and very easy to pass through. The city itself seemed to be built like some kind of grid, all stemming from a square at the center. They followed the roads to the center and once there, they gasped in unison.

Sitting like a monument to days long passed was a dragon's skull. The beast must have terrorized men its day, for the grinning jaws were large enough to swallow a horse with a draw cart whole. Underneath the gaze of the beating sun, above the sands of the waste and with the wind blowing hot in his face, Aego thought that the beast might have been breathing fire on him for daring to stop on its grave. He could not resist a grin.

"I hope this is worth it," Kovarro said to him.

Aego grunted. Kovarro was a man of reason, not superstition as many of the riders were. Once he saw how easily they would plunder, his doubts would vanish. After a long while, they drew up a proper ambush. They placed them men carefully, using the walls of the dead city to hide their trace. They had a few light footed men run about the area, making sure to clear the hoof prints left by the horses, lest they be noticed before their trap was sprung.

As they waited, Aego could not help but stare at the sky; it was a deep blue today, with not a cloud in sight as if the Great Stallion was trying to cool the harsh red of the waste. He took it for a sign, the Great Stallion was going to offer him an easy victory and an unspeakable treasure. His father had taught him about the religion of the Westerosi; the one god with seven faces. He had come to know many other gods in his time, for the slaves of the Dothraki were allowed to worship as they pleased. He held them all in great regard, but none could be a match for the Great Stallion. The Stallion did not demand worship or sacrifice; only that one take everything made for them, everything beneath the blue sky.

They waited there until the sun began to slide away from its pedestal in the heavens. The sky was canvas of golden, red and orange. As night drew nearer, the ghosts of the dead city grew bolder. Every breath of wind was suddenly the groan of the damned. Aego seethed; he despised superstition, but he would not subject his riders to an entire night in this damnable place. But, just as he prepared to call a retreat, one of the many gods of the universe answered his prayers for blood and fire.

They heard the sound of hooves, and the sound of rich, fat men. The men spoke in Qaathi, which made Aego frown. He could understand High Valyrian, for his father had spoken it, and had hoped he would be privy to their plans in that manner. They were jolly enough it seemed. None of the guards moved to check the city for raiders, just as Aego had hoped. The Qaathi were well aware that the Dothraki feared dead Valryain cities, and had taken this route in hopes that the ghosts of Old Valyria would scare away would be raiders. Aego marveled at his own cleverness.

When the last of the caravan had marched past his position, Aego stood from his hiding place and raised Shierak. They stalked out into the open, following the caravan like a shadow. Ten riders emerged from the shadows to stalk with him, Asavva one of them. All of their fears were suddenly gone. They were the ghosts now, they were the terror lurking in the hearts of men. If the Valyrian ghosts dared to interfere in their hunt, they too would feel the sting of Dothraki steel. Aego gave Asavva a signal and she let loose a flaming arrow into the air.

His war cry was thunderous; the battle madness took him then. He could not hear his own cries, only the cries of his surprised enemies. Everything was half a breath slower. He came upon the first soldier before the man had time to turn; the man paid for his slow reflexes with his head. The next men turned, trying to dig his spear into Sheriak, but lost both weapon and arm before he could prove dangerous. The other Dothraki crashed into the rear of the formation. The front of the group, smelling the blood, fled in panic. Aego and his men took care to cull the souls of those who were lost in the panic.

Kovarro and a group of forty erupted from behind the white-red buildings. They forced the caravan to change direction very suddenly, leading them further into the trap. The panic doubled. Many of the guard suddenly realized that coin was not worth their lives, and they took off running, preferring to face the desert than the Dothraki. Najaho came with the final wave, and they funneled the remaining caravan to the square.

The Dothraki made a death circle, closing of all exits from the square and taking the soul of any man who strayed from the center. But, they hesitated to move forward. The Dragon's skull stood large and terrible, keeping them at bay. The caravan took the time to regroup. The important people were placed at the center, the remaining guards became a shell of pointed spears. Aego growled; the time for planning was over, he could no longer fight from the rear. It was time for blood. He leaped from his horse in one movement and clashed blades with the nearest man. His men took heart of his example and followed eagerly into the fray. The battle madness was stronger now. He did not know how he was moving, or why, yet he dodged swing after swing. His blade sank into a tiny man's side; the creature went flying away in spray of blood and bone and guts. Another died when Aego's arakh sank through his helmet, tasting his brains and eating his memories from his grasp. Who were these insects to think that they could stand before him; to think that they had earned even a drop of his glorious blood?

His rage took him to the center of the formation, near the dragon's head. Now it was not soldiers, but merchants. They did not fight for their lives, they begged. Yet, they met the same fate. At the very center was a short man dressed in fine robes, and a woman in red; tall and beautiful. Aego grinned at the sight of her. His first prize amongst many. The man was screaming at the woman in their language; his anger quickly turned to pleading as he saw Aego. Before the fool could cry, Aego split him from shoulder to hip and painted the dragon's maw red; it was grinning now, having tasted blood for the first time in hundreds of years. Its fires made him more eager.

Aego grabbed the woman by the neck and pushed her against the dragon's teeth. He smashed his lips into her; she did not resist, to his displeasure. Instead she returned it, deep and passionate. He pulled away quickly and squeezed her throat. He wanted fear. "Don't you understand, bitch?" he raised his arakh closer to her face. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk, and then the men will fuck you, and then the horses! You're my prize!"

She looked at him with deep, almond eyes that shined with such fire that they almost seemed as bright as her copperish, red hair. There was a ruby on her neck, and it shined brightly. "The first prize of many, I'm sure, Khal Aego."

Aego's breath hitched; the battle madness left him and he came spiraling quickly back to the world of mortals. Her eyes stared unflinchingly into his own. Her red lips were bleeding slightly from the force of his attack on them, but yet she smiled knowingly. He quickly withdrew his hand and placed his blade on the side of her neck; she did not flinch, she merely continued to gaze into his eyes.

"How do you know my name? Are you a witch?"

Her eyes filled with mirth and she chuckled; she spoke next as if telling a child something that was painfully obvious to an adult. "I am no witch, great Khal. I am Melisandre. I am merely a humble servant of the Lord of Light, R'hllor, the one true God."

Aego eased slightly; he knew of the religion of the Red God. A few slaves in their khalasar practiced it faithfully. That did not, however, explain howthis strange woman knew his name. For that matter, it was strange that she could even speak Dothraki. Her accent was extremely strange, but her tongue was true. "Answer the questions or die slowly. How did you know my name? Where did you learn to speak my tongue so clearly?"

"I trained for many years to speak this language, and many others, Khal Aego," the Red Woman said calmly, though she eased her neck away from the edge of the blade. "I knew this tongue would be useful for me on my journey to find you. As for your name, I have always known it. Maybe even before you did. I have seen you in R'hllor's fires. You will ride at the head of the khalasar of khalasars. I have come to help you along the way."

The mystic of her character both intrigued and angered him. He had no faith in her Red God, so her ramblings about it were annoying at best. However, the last of her words piqued his interest. Still, he found it irritating that he could see no fear in her eyes; he had ridden down all her companions, yet she acted as if she had planned it. He would break this mystic of hers; she would grovel at his feet.

A hand touched his shoulder and he nearly cut it off, but it was merely Kovarro. "Aego, all the Qaathi are dead. We lost seven riders."

"Leave their corpses here to rot," Aego said. "Most of the guards fled, if they regroup and return, we will lose many more. Take all the horses that are strong enough to come, and do not open the wagons until we are far from here."

The men regrouped quickly and happily made their way from the ruins of city. It was late night now. Aego had Melisandre ride on her own horse.

"The foreign bitch dares ride with us?" Najaho had asked, but went quickly silent went Kovarro shot him a knowing look. It was best not to interrupt Aego when he was playing at his cruel little games.

Aego had hoped to break the woman immediately; Dothraki did not ride hard like other men did, they rode much harder. Their steeds were trained from birth to run faster for longer. A normal man would immediately fall behind when riding with them. He had hoped the grueling journey would break her spirit, but she disappointed him. She rode alongside his forward group with little trouble, never falling more than five strides behind them.

The Red Waste was unforgivingly cold in the night, so they rode until they reached the southern edges of the Lhazar. Aego kept riding until he found a very noticeable hill, with flat land on all sides of it. He set his guard diligently; the Lhazar was teeming with other raider groups, and he would not be caught unawares in the night. The wagons were placed at the top of the hill, and the men who were getting the first chance to rest, the older and more experienced riders, sat in a circle around the wagons and a small fire.

Aego had Najaho keep the men at bay while he, Asavva and Kovarro checked the wagons. Most of the wagons were filled with fine silks from far far to the east. For Dothraki, the world to the east may well have ended at Qarth and the Bone Mountains that jutted from their to the northern sea like the spine of Essos; what lay beyond the mountains was beyond their ability to pillage, so may as well not have exited. Aside from silks, there were jewels and scrolls. One carriage was filled with strange eastern armors and weapons, which he would fully inspect later. The last two carriages made him grin, for as he stared inside, something stared back at him. There were some thirty slaves, mostly women, huddle inside. They were very foreign to his eyes. They had skin the color of milk, hair that was thick and shiny and narrow eyes.

"Exotic women," Kovarro said. "I'm sure the merchants would have made a fortune for these in Slaver's Bay. We could too ..."

Selling slaves was forbidden amongst the Dothraki, but Aego and Kovarro were men of practicality. Aego thought hard on it, but decided against it. Slaver's Bay was too far, especially considering they were already two days late returning to camp. The khalasar would move on without them, no doubt. It would not do well to lose the khalasar, even if they were not his yet. "Let's reward the men for their good work."

Aego reached in and grabbed one of the women by the hair; she screamed and fought but was no match for him. The men watched eagerly, hungry to have their prize. He chucked her beside the fire and stared out into the group.

"Who of you doubted me?" Aego demanded. They were silent. So eager. So loyal. "I heard your whispers in the wind. A ghost city. A demon city. Only a demon would lead us there. Who doubts me still? I have brought you more in this week than you have known since Khal Ohollo was smashed by Drogo at the river crossing. Bury your doubts! Bury them under fine silk and fine women! Doubt me no more and I will give you everything beneath this great blue sky!" He tossed her into the fray and they fought until the strongest man had her.

The women fought hard, but all were eventually in loving embrace. There were two men and one boy amongst the group. The men were not spared, but Aego took the boy for himself; he needed someone to explain the weapons to him. The boy, probably three and ten in age, cowered, but followed him silently. Kovarro and Asavva slipped away into the night and Aego went a ways off to join Melisandre. She was seated by a fire of her own and she had a hand on Sheriak's sleeping belly.

Aego saw one of the men keeping vigil, barely more than a boy with the hint of a mustache on his lip, staring at the Red Woman. Aego hissed at him and the boy quickly returned to his duty. Aego sat and beckoned the milk skinned boy to sit. He did, on the other side of the fire. He stared longingly into the grass, relief clear in his face.

"Red Woman, do you know the language of these people?"

Melisandre took her eyes from the fire and met his gaze. "Yes, my Khal. They are from a land beyond the Bone Mountains called Yi Ti … it is far, but closer still than my home."

Aego resisted a growl; the bitch wanted to speak about herself. "Where are you from, Red Woman?"

Her eyes flickered dangerously. "I hail from the Land Beneath the Shadow, Khal Aego. You may know it as Asshai."

Aego resisted a flinch at the sound of it; Asshai was as close to hell as Dothraki could imagine in their culture. It was said that necromancers and witches practiced their dark arts openly in that land. Ghost Grass was found in Asshai, and it was common knowledge that the world would end when the ghost grass of Asshai consumed the entire world. But, he refused to show her fear. He did not fear her, magic or no. "You are a long way from home, Red Woman."

"And I will go a longer way still in your service, Khal Aego."

Aego laughed heartily at that. "I am no Khal. And you're brave to assume you'll be serving me … but maybe you aren't wrong; you are a beautiful thing." He was not lying; her face was shaped like a heart and her body looked supremely thick and curvy beneath her thin, red robes.

"You may take me as you wish, Khal Aego," she said without batting an eye. "But, I know that you're a different breed of man than those who follow you. You're young, but plunder and rape are not all you seek. You want a Kingdom. You want a Kingdom of everything beneath the blue sky; the journey will begin soon. In less than one week, one thousand riders will call you Khal as I do now."

She had spoken Aego's deepest wishes into existence. "Khal Ohollo lives," he said bitterly. "I cannot seek to become Khal as long as he lives."

Melisandre eyed him inquisitively; she was searching for weakness in him, he realized. "The Dothraki follow the strongest, do they not? If am right in assuming you're the strongest of your khalasar, why haven't you killed him and taken what is yours."

"It is not so simple, bitch," Aego said with a sneer. "He has given me no reason to kill him; if I kill him without cause, the riders will split up and go their own ways." She continued to stare, prying until he relented and added. "After my father died, Khal Ohollo kept me alive long enough so that I could defend myself. I won't kill him unless he gives me a reason to."

"And what if he lives forever?" Melisandre asked. "Will you you deny yourself your birthright forever?" He gave her a measured look, unwilling to succumb to her questioning. She was his prisoner, not the other way around. She smiled. "It matters not, my Khal. For upon our return, the Khal will give you every reason you need to end his life."

Aego thought of asking how she knew it, but he knew she would say she had seen it in her flames. He decided to leave the point. He would let her ramble on for now; if her visions proved true, he would keep her at his side. But, if he was not a khal by the end of the weak, he would make her know pain unlike anything she had ever known. He spent the rest of his time questioning the boy through the Red Woman.

The boy told a tale of hardship and forced migration. There was a civil war happening in the land of Yi Ti; his father and his household had been captured and sold. Only his father and sister remained; they were among those being beaten or raped, or whatever the men were doing with him. Aego thanked his luck; a former soldier would definitely know of the armor and weapons they brought with them. The boy's name was Yao, his father was called Fa and his sister was called Mei.

"You'll serve me boy," Aego said. "Whatever I say, you will do. Your father will serve me too. If I find you worthy, I'll give you blade and a horse to ride. Serve me well and one day you'll have a woman to ride, and the horrors of slavery that awaited for you will never come to pass. After tonight, I'll make sure no one hurts your father or sister."

The boy nodded eagerly when Melisandre told him; his eyes lit up and he began to cry. Aego said nothing else the rest of the night. Melisandre began chanting at some point into the fire. It was soft and she changed languages every minute or so. When she graced his ears with Dothraki or Valyrian, he knew that she was praying for the dawn and he resisted a snort; the dawn was promised.

Whether by Melisandre's chants or simply the way of the world, the dawn did come that morning. They rode hard for the entire day, stopping only for food and water. During the breaks, the women were pulled from the wagons. After they ate, they were turned over to the riders. Aego was a man of his word, however. Yao pointed out his father and sister and Aego gave the orders to leave them be; there were no words in Dothraki or in High Valyrian that Aego could think of to describe posture of relief that enveloped the small family.

The man who had claimed Mei was a brave soul and demanded to fight for his prize. They left his body for the crows when they drove on.

It was three days hard riding before they reached the camp where they has last seen the khalasar. The khalasar was long gone, leaving only the usual proof of a town on the move. They were not perturbed. They followed the a trail of horse shit and prints for two days until they finally came upon the khalasar. The first thing that gave it away was the smell of the horses, then the sounds of the playing children and training men.

The khalasar paid them no mind as they entered. Aego gave his orders quickly. The majority of the captives were given to the Slave Mothers, who would inculcate them to their new roles in the khalasar. He only allowed Najaho to keep one from himself. A portion of the spoils were sent to the khal, the rest were placed in the center of the camp with five riders to guard them. The other riders watched jealously; it seemed that the other khas had returned with very little to show for their ranging.

Aego found his tent, which had been set up by his Norvoshi slave girl, Iya. She nodded upon seeing his return, though she watched the other four occupants warily. The man, Fa, stood like a shadow over his son and daughter. He was sullen and defeated, tired from his journey and devastated by his inability to protect his children. Melisandre, on the other hand, looked radiant. She always did, Aego realized. Even after five days hard ride with little rest and no water to wash with, she looked radiant.

Iya prepared them a meal of lamb, and Fa wept and spoke in his eastern language. Aego looked to Melisandre. "He is very thankful," she said.

Aego only nodded; the man had been helpful. His knowledge of the weapons and armors had been extensive; apparently his primary function in whatever conflict he had been involved in was smithing, on top of his duties as a soldier. He said, given the right materials, he could reproduce everything. Aego had told him that he would find him a place amongst the Dothraki smiths; they were limited in their knowledge to simply making arakhs and composite bows. Once he was Khal, he would be sure that they could form the curved spears and light armor he had seen in the cache.

He interrogated the man more as they ate. The armor apparently was made of a hardened leather and iron; instead of being a single solid plate, as warriors of the Free Cities and in Westeros wore, it was made of several plates, strung together with clothe; this allowed for great maneuverability. The sleeves could be added or removed easily for archers. Aego smiled at this; the Great Stallion had blessed his boldness.

The Red Woman seemed to read his thoughts. "Do you see now, Aego, the power of R'hllor? He has brought you more than you could have imagined."

Aego frowned and said nothing. They were in the midst of their meal when Kovarro slipped into the room, looking fraught and excited. "Aego … the Khal is in a fit of rage. He's walking through the khalasar, looking for you."

Aego caught the Red Woman's eye and she smiled; he resisted a shiver. "Stay here with them. I will meet him."

The air was absolutely electric; the whole khalasar was watching from a distance. Blades had been drawn, and Aego realized suddenly he had left his in the tent. His fears were assuaged when Najaho walked up beside him, carrying his arakh readily at the hip. They found the Khal with his two Bloodriders, yelling loudly in the faces of the five young riders Aego had left to protect his spoils. They cowered, they but held their ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aego demanded. "I sent you your share of my spoils."

Khal Ohollo was a hulking man; in the entire khalasar, only Najaho was larger. He was covered in angry, red scars that had never fully healed and his braid was short as a reminder of when Khal Drogo had crushed him on the banks of a river. His khalasar had numbered ten thousand then and he had had six bloodriders. He only had two now; Chakko and Argo, who were tall and thin twins with beaks for mouths.

"What of the slaves?" Ohollo demanded, fire in his eyes.

Argo was taken aback. "All but one were sent to the Mothers," he said, genuinely confused. "I allowed Najaho to keep one, as is my right. He only has one tent slave and he is allowed two."

"And what of the four you snuck into your tent, you little whelp? You think me blind? You took three of the milk men and some red whore."

Aego steeled his stomach; he had not expected this argument to come so quickly. The Khal's anger over it was also surprising; he had kept more than one slave to himself before, and the man's rage was usually lukewarm. Was this the work of the Red Woman? "They're useful to me. The three milk men have knowledge that the other's don't about some of the treasures I took. The Red Woman is for my own purposes." He saw that reason was falling on deaf ears to the Khal and his belly grew hot with rage. "Who are you to demand me this? I took those lives with steel and blood; you should thank me for giving you a piece of it."

Chakko stepped forward, hissing, but Ohollo stopped him with a hand on his chest. His anger was visible now. Common riders and women were cowering; the Kos, who hid very well in the shadows, watched intently. "I am your Khal whelp! When your father died, it was I who kept you alive until you could fend for yourself."

"Then your debt to him is paid! Did you forget that my father died to save you from Drogo? You have no right to what's mine!"

"Fucking pup!" Ohollo spat. "You'll regret your words. My debt is paid? Fine; then I tire of the curse you place on my khalasar! Your father may have saved my life from Drogo, but it was him who brought the doom upon me in the first place. When the sun rises in the morning, I will kill you on the grass. I will not have you burned; you will be a feast for the crows as your father should have been, you Valyrian mutt!"

Khal Ohollo was suddenly beyond redemption. "After I kill you, I'll fuck your wife and have a horse fuck your son's corpse!"

Without another word, he strode away. The fear was tense in the air, but it was simmering down. Even in his blind, unnatural rage, Khal Ohollo was a man who took care of his khalasar. The people had feared that the argument would lead to open warfare between the two groups, which would have seen the khalasar destroyed. The Khal had been gracious enough to challenge him in the morning, on the grass and away from the women and children.

Kovarro and the others were waiting expectantly in the tent. "He challenged me; we fight in the morning," Aego said.

"To single combat?"

"He didn't dare," Aego said, realizing it only now that his rage had subsided. The Khal had not challenged him to single combat. "Which can only mean that he has allies and they plan to kill us all in the morning. Stupid fuck, I have allies as well. It must have been Bhobo who spoke this poison in his ear. I will have that bastard's head one day."

There were nine Kos, including Aego. Bhobo, Ozo, Kaffo, Hrazzo, Sajo, Carro, Assilo and Thabo. Bhobo and Ozo were brothers, and they stood together in their absolute hatred of him and his deceased father and mother. They had tried time and again to have him killed. Hrazzo and Sajo were his allies, though the Khal had failed to see it; he had approached them long ago on this matter and they were men nearly as ambitious as he was. Thabo was the problem, for Assilo and Carro would follow him without question. He was a traditional man, who believed strongly that the strongest should rule.

"Go and have words with Hrazzo and Sajo," Aego told Kovarro. "Tell them that tomorrow might bring bloodshed and they should be ready if they wish for this khalasar to be great again. Have a man spread a rumor that the khal is a coward and he won't fight me in single combat. That may sway Thabo. Najaho, make sure the men don't drink tonight. They'll need their wits for tomorrow."

The two vanished silently into the night. Aego turned his gaze sternly to Melisandre. "Is this the work of some sorcery? The Khal has never been driven to such rage!"

"I assure you it is not," Melisandre said, cool as a breeze. "No doubt the Khal has been festering resentment for you for a long time; it is hard to be a leader when everyone knows that there is a better man in their midst. But if it was sorcery, would it matter? The Dothraki have taught you to fear a power that they do not understand. I know many dark arts, my Khal; arts that will one day help to make you the khal of all Dothraki."

Aego did not broach the subject again; he realized starkly that he did not care. His mother had been the one to teach him to fear sorcery. She had died when he was but five years and he hardly remembered her. His father, until his death just five years ago, had held the Dothraki superstitions in contempt. He dwelled on it only for a moment, for the excitement had made him tired. He fell asleep quickly.

Kovarro roused him the next morning, just as the night sky began to take on some color. The air was tense enough to cut. All the riders of the khalasar gathered just a few hundred meters from the tents. No one brought a horse, for there was no greater sin amongst the Dothraki than killing a horse of your own khalasar. Aego got a glimpse of the Khal's young wife, barely younger than him, and her three year old son; no doubt she had heard his proclamation before the khalasar, for her eyes were red from a lack of sleep and she was shaking with fear.

The Kos stood before their Khas; no one had drawn a blade yet. Khal Ohollo waited for only a moment after Thabo and his men arrived to spit in Aego's direction. "This whelp has denied me my right, and I will kill for the curse he's placed on this khalasar."

"Those lambs are mine," Aego said simply. "You are a coward to try and take them! I lost seven riders on the sands of the Waste to get them, while you sat here with your one hundred riders and cowered at the memory of Drogo." Aego spit into the ground for emphasis. "I have heard of your cowardice! You've plotted with Bhobo and Ozo to kill me, instead of facing me like a man in single combat on the plains!"

There was a hiss as many drew in air; Aego had laid the bait. The Khal's face was suddenly perturbed and he was at a loss for words. Bhobo quickly came to his own defense; his voice was high and pitched like a mouse or squealing whore, Aego thought.

"Plot?" Bhobo said. "Is it plotting to defend one's Khal and Khalasar? You and your lot have cursed this place. You have visited dead Valyrian cities, as your wretched father did before you! He bragged of how he visited the heart of the Doom of Valyria just days before we met Drogo at the river." Bhobo turned to the other Kos. "We should kill them now before the curse spreads further!"

"Where I get my spoils is my business," Aego said quickly. "You should fear my arakh more than you fear the dead Bhobo. If you want to involve yourself in something that has nothing to do with you, you're welcome to! And you as well, Ozo! The Great Stallion should have given me six arms and three arakhs so I could kill all three of you cowards at once."

There was a ripple of laughter. Aego scanned the crowd, though he dared not look at his allies, lest he give them away. He laid eyes instead on Thabo, who was thin and gaunt and so stone faced that he may as well have been a statue. "Will you all stand for this cowardice?" Thabo's silence and stare was deafening. Aego did not break eye contact with him.

Sajo, a short and bald Dothraki, came to Aego's defense. "I must agree with Aego. This is a small khalasar; it would not due to get even smaller. Aego has done nothing worth the slaughter of him and his riders. Let them handle the dispute on their own."

Hzarro nodded in agreement. They were at an impasse. Aego did not break eye contact with Thabo; they were having a battle of wills. Aego swore at that moment if Thabo sided with the Khal, he would kill him. If he failed, Aego promised he would haunt Thabo till the end of time. Carro and Assilo looked at each other and then looked to Thabo, waiting for him to state his piece before throwing in their lot.

Thabo's face softened and he sighed. "I am no ally to the Valyrian boy … but the Khal has plotted alongside others to kill him. I have followed you for many years, Khal Ohollo, and it seems that if you would resort to such measures, you have grown weak. This should be a simple matter." Thabo looked his Khal boldly in the eye. "You should have slain him last night when he refused you, instead of drawing us all here and trying to get us to kill him for you."

Aego refused to let the victory rush to his face. Ohollo made an angry sound and stepped forward. "No man dares call me weak! Fine then! I will end this simply; step forward and die you whelp!"

Aego drew his blade eagerly, letting it sing for blood in the crisp morning air. He eyed Chakko, Argo and Bhobo, wondering if they would ignore the Khal's wishes and try to move against him. Bhobo slinked back into his men, and the other two grudgingly held to their Khal's words. Aego allowed himself a grin.

They met in the center in a clash of steel. Ohollo was stronger than Aego was and used his strength to push the younger warrior back. Aego barely resisted, letting Ohollo muscle him backward; he took a step to the side, the Khal lost balance for a second and Aego smashed his fist into Ohollo's temple. The beast of a man stumbled, but swung on his blade on a back hand. Aego leaped back, taking a only small cut to the belly.

The battle madness took him then. He rained blows on the Khal; the blow to the temple had dulled Ohollo's senses and he could barely move his blade to parry. Aego planted his foot in Ohollo's chest. The Khal fell on his back, but rolled quickly to his feet to avoid being impaled. Ohollo parried a strike and slid his blade up, nicking Aego across the left arm before the younger fighter made some distance.

Aego took a breath. He launched forward. The Khal took a wide, flat swing. Aego, with the nimbleness and flexibility of youth, ducked. The blade took strands of his silver hair as penance for his bravery. Aego sunk his arakh into the Khal's belly. The tip found Ohollo's intestines and Aego jerked before pulling away. There was a spray of blood and the Khal's guts burst into the open air. The Khal fell to his knees, using his blade to stop from falling well into the grass.

Khal Ohollo looked up pleadingly. Blood flowed freely from his mouth and he had but moments left. "M-m-my son?" he managed to utter. Aego did not say a word to him. The Khal closed his eyes, realizing his folly. He feared not death, Aego could tell, but he loved his son. "A-a at least have us burned together!"

Khal Ohollo's head came off too easily, Aego thought. He had always believed that the Khal was made of sturdier stuff. Little blood spurted from the neck, for most of it had already escaped through his belly. The Khal's bloodriders did not wait for a second before screaming and charging down on Aego; custom demanded that they avenge their Khal or die trying. They never made it to him. Najaho and Kovarro were in the way in less than a moment's notice.

Chakko fell first; he had the unfortunate luck of coming in Najaho's way. Najaho split his head like splitting a melon and smiled throughout the process. Argo fought longer, but Kovarro spun away from a poor swing and split his back open so deep that some of the bones of his spine flew right out. The morning was suddenly quiet.

Aego turned to Ohollo's one hundred, personal riders. They held him in contempt, but he was their master now. He grabbed his braid and held it high like a bill of ownership. "Once again my braid grows longer!" he spat. "I proclaim myself as Khal of this Khalasar; any man who would challenge me for it can step forward and die!"

Aego scanned the Khas; he paid particular attention to Thabo, but the man looked indifferent at best. Finally, his eyes landed on Bhobo. "By all the custom of our people, I am the Khal now. Am I still cursed, Bhobo? You can end it now! Come and end the curse I've brought upon you." Bhobo did not move. "If no man will challenge me, get back to your women and children. Tonight we will burn Ohollo and send him to the Stallion. We ride for Vaes Dothrak in the morning."

They dispersed quickly, and he knew at that moment he was Khal. Slaves came to grab Ohollo's body. Aego quickly turned to Kovarro; their victory was tenuous for now so he would not celebrate. "Place five riders at my tent until I return to it; I'll not have the lambs I killed the khal for killed in revenge."

His own men were ecstatic, for they were now royalty. He gave Najaho orders to keep them orderly and calm. Aego moved quickly towards Ohollo's massive tent, which would be his from that day forward. Ohollo's young wife, one cycle younger than him, was standing guard alone. Her son was asleep in his father's furs. Her eyes were bloodshot and she held a knife in her hand. At the sight of him, a pathetic sob left her lips. He stepped over to her slowly; she held the knife dangerously for just a moment but the trembling of her hands caused it to fall loose.

Aego grabbed her by the chin, she resisted and closed her eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. He rethought his comment. "I'm not going to kill your son. I'm going to take him to Vaes Dothrak; he can live there forever, free from my wrath. This is my gift to Khal Ohollo." She had opened her eyes, and she was looking at him pleadingly now. He could see the joy in her gaze, the disbelief.

"Your name is Verri?" she nodded dumbly. "I am letting your son live for the Khal's sake. He begged me, in his final moment … but he said nothing of you. What do you have for me? I promised I would fuck you bloody after I killed him."

The tears that had left her eyes returned anew; Aego relished the power. He had no plans on killing her. She was worth much more to him than the boy, but she had to be broken. She had to truly become his. "I'll spare you," he said to her finally, but he grabbed her waist and pulled her close, letting her feel Khal Ohollo's still warm blood and hardness of his loins. "Tonight, after we burn Ohollo, you will show me your gratitude. I could take it from you … right here, in front of your son. But, I am merciful. You'll embrace me with open arms after the pyre."

Rumors spread quickly across the camp about how young Verri had managed to spare herself and her son the wrath of the new Khal; Aego found them amusing. One he heard from the men was something along the lines of she had shown him the best couple minutes of his life. Another was that they secretly had always been lovers, and that was what had thrown Ohollo into a mad rage. But, he knew, underlying the rumors was the simple truth that everyone would think in the back of their minds; he was merciful. It would go along way to tether Thabo and his lot. Thabo would have no respect for a man who killed a babe.

The tension was thick throughout the day. Aego did not allow anyone to ride away, and had his men keep a tight watch on Bhobo and his group. They were quiet, however. By the time the night had finally come, Ohollo had been set on his massive pyre before the open stars. It was a great honor to be burned, for then one could go and ride with the Great Stallion in the sky. Ohollo had promised he would not give Aego the same honor, but Aego knew better than to leave the Khal for the crows; even Kovarro and Najaho would have resented him for that.

Melisandre followed Aego like a shadow, insistent that she would see the fire. Aego let Verri light the pyre, as was custom. She did not meet his gaze, but as soon as Ohollo's body was alight, she slid past him and into the tent. Aego could not help but smirk at his victory. His gloating was quickly transformed into reverence for the wide open sky and the man flying up to meet his god.

Melisandre was chanting quietly beneath her breath. Her words entranced him, though he understood little of it. The shadows of the khalasar began to dance to the rhythm of her sonorous voice. He was lost in that trance for hours it seemed. As the fire licked away at the Khal, she begged for the dawn and he found himself begging with her. The dawn, the dawn, the dawn. Light to break the dark. Fire to burn away the evils.

He snapped from his trance. Melisandre was starting into his eyes; her brown eyes had turned red!

"My Khal. The Night is long and full of terrors, but the Fire will burn them all away."


	2. Chapter 2: Viserys

**Blood and Fire and Ice**

 **Chapter Two**

Viserys Targaryen

From afar, Pentos had seemed like a city of gold. He had first seen it seen it as the sun was rising over the horizon. The red and golden streams of light had washed over the the tan, brick buildings of the city and had given Viserys the impression that Pentos might be the greatest city in the world and he might one day sit a throne in this port city. A closer inspection had quickly killed that fleeting fantasy of his.

"It smells almost as bad as King's Landing," commented Aurane Waters through a scrunched face, his sharp grey-green eyes scanning the crowded streets of the city for danger. They were surrounded by an entourage of ten guards, dressed in heavy Westerosi armor that seemed to make the locales wary of their presence; yet Aurane knew that he was his lord's first line of defense. Murder in the Free Cities was much trickier business than it was in Westeros.

"At least King's Landing smells of the shit of Kings," Viserys said as he eyed the crowded streets with more than a bit of disgust. "I see nothing but merchants and slaves in this city. Maybe I should not have come after all."

Aurane gave a signal and the men turned down a street, equally as busy with men, women and children. It was hard to hear in the noise of the city; people were yelling in the Pentoshi version of Valyrian, trying to sell their goods. "It's a merchant city, my lord," Aurane said finally. "And slavery is outlawed in Pentos, as per a law forced on them by Braavos some years ago. I assure you, when you meet the Magister, you'll see he shits jewels that put Tywin Lannister to shame."

Viserys frowned; he saw many men and women with collars around their necks, which was traditionally the mark of slavery in Essos. He knew, of course, that slavery was technically outlawed in Pentos, but he knew equally well that they kept at their nonsense, despite their fear of Braavos' wrath. Worst still than the wicked slavery, was that Magister Illryo had not come to meet them at the docks! What an insult! He was the Lord of Dragonstone, Westerosi Master of Ships and an emissary of the King; who was some Pentoshi spice peddler to make him walk through Pentos' streets in search of a manse? Luckily, Aurane knew the way.

Aurane was the bastard brother of Lord Monford Velaryon, who was both a lord sworn to Viserys and the man who had raised him since the day his mother had died giving birth on Dragonstone as her husband the King was murdered and her eldest son fought to keep the throne his forefathers had forged for him. Aurane had spent much of his life as a sellsword, but had returned at his elder brother's calling to stand by Viserys' side. Viserys had come to depend on him greatly; a sellsword knew many dirty tricks and was never afraid to use them.

"There's many fine fabrics here, Lord Viserys," Aurane said. "Why not purchase something for your wife to be?"

"Business first," Viserys said. "As Lord of Dragonstone, I have access to Pentoshi goods like no other lord in Westeros. My wife will get the finest things that the East has to offer, in due time. Hopefully, after I see the Magister, we will have access to even greater things."

Lord of Dragonstone; the title was both an honor and insult. Usually, the title of Lord of Dragonstone went to the crown prince of the realm, along with the various titles and responsibilities that came with it. It had been given to Viserys as a way to punish his brother, the King, for the part he played in inciting Robert's Rebellion almost sixteen years ago. Viserys sneered at the idea that such common men could think to punish a Targaryen, but their arrogance had given him power and influence beyond what was normal for the second son of a murdered King.

Rhaegar had, under some kind of madness, kidnapped Lyanna of House Stark and raped her. Then their father had had both her father and eldest brother killed in the throne room at King's Landing. What proceeded was a year and a half long conflict; the largest challenge to the throne since the First Blackfyre Rebellion. King Aerys died in the castle under uncertain circumstances, his wife died giving birth to a daughter on Dragonstone, and Rhaegar barely escaped with his life and his crown after the Battle on the Trident.

To punish the new King for inciting such violence, his allies had forced him to surrender Dragonstone to his little brother, giving Viserys the kind of influence that he would have never had if not for the rebellion;. Yet, Viserys could not help but imagine that being the simple Lord of Dragonstone was an insult; after all, once Rhaegar passed, some Dornish mongrel would sit the throne. The thought made Viserys' stomach lurch; Targaryens did not bow to lesser men. He would not bow.

"How much longer?" Viserys asked, beginning to feel his patience thin. They had been walking for while now; such that the docks where they had left their ship were not visible, even though they stood on a hill.

"This Magister likes his privacy," Aurane said patiently. "His manse is on the outskirts of the city. You will appreciate the solitude, I'm sure."

Aurane spoke truthfully; the manse was on the far edges of the city, and Pentos was a large city. It was every bit as large as King's Landing, and even more packed with people if one could believe it. The manse was a massive thing; it was made of white brick and lined with beautiful and exotic plant life that Viserys could not all name. It was guarded by stone-faced Pentoshi who looked unimpressive to Viserys' eye; their armor was thin and weak compared to what his guards wore. This immediately made him weary; he could not afford an alliance with weakling.

The gates opened for them, eager as a well paid whore. The square inside the gates was large and decorated. At its center was a monument; it depicted a young, blond man, carrying a sword. So lifelike it was that, for a moment, Viserys did not realize he was looking at painted marble.

"It is a monument to myself," came a voice that sounded fat, rich and gluttonous. "In my youth, I was an amazing warrior and the finest of men. Once, I stared at this statue and wept for the days gone by."

Upon seeing him, Viserys realized why he had wept. The Magister was a morbidly obese man, with a pare of teats like a wizened old woman. Yet, he wore the finest red silk that Viserys had ever laid eyes on and his fingers and neck were adorned with jewels that would make the richest noble in the King's court scoff at their decadency. The Magister stepped forward and gave what Viserys imagined was a bow; whether it was meant as an insult or the fat man simply could not bare his own weight well enough to bow properly, Viserys did not know. Yet, the Lord of Dragonstone bowed in return; the tales said that Illyro Mopatis was the richest and most powerful man in Pentos, so he would tread lightly.

"My lord of Dragonstone," Illyro said, "it is a pleasure to host you at my humble manse. Follow me, a feast awaits."

And a feast it was; ten different courses of succulent pig, duck, lamb and crabs. Viserys was hungry and ate readily. He tried to make conversation with the Magister, but the fat man was hungrily tearing into his food at all moments and could do nothing more than grunt, nod or laugh appropriately. Aurane and a few nameless Pentoshi ate with them; the bastard was conversing with them in their native tongue and it made Viserys exceedingly nervous.

"Ahhh, my servants have outdone themselves, truly. Come, my lord of Dragonstone, we can exchange more serious words in my solar."

Viserys followed him impatiently; the Magister waddled, as if his knees could not bare the weight of his massive belly. The creature was sweating profusely by the time they arrived in the solar, and quickly ordered a servant women to bring them more for the fine wine they had been having at the feast.

"I know not much of the Dornish," Illyro said, "but if everything in their country is as fine as their wine, it must be the greatest place in the world."

Viserys snorted. "I assure you Magister, the Dornish are good for little else but their Dornish Red. But enough talk of that desolate place; we have business to attend to. How … freely, can we speak?"

"Ahhh, I have heard stories for the Red Keep of King's Landing," the Magister said through a sip of wine, "where word must be spoken softly because the walls have sharp ears. Worry not, my Lord of Dragonstone, any words spoken in this manse will only be heard by those I wish to hear it."

Viserys realized quickly that that meant that someone could be listening, but he just gave the magister a smile, hoping it reached his eyes. Ostensibly, he had traveled to Pentos to talk about trade and pirates on behalf of the realm. But he had come for much more. He had been exchanging with the Magister long before he told Rhaegar he was headed to Pentos.. "Excellent … how fares the woman that I sent to you, Magister?"

"She fares well my lord," Illyro said. "The poor little thing is terrified of course, knowing of the fate that will come of her. Since I finally have you in the safety of my home, I must ask, how did you come across her? She certainly has the Valyrian look about her, no doubt it. A descendent of Maegor the Cruel you said?"

"The same. I spent many a man and much coin looking for her; my man Aurane found her in the Stepstones and traced her lineage back to the Blackfyre pretenders without a doubt. I hope the reward for my troubles is appreciated."

Viserys could see from the look in the Magister's eye that the man understood; he wanted much more than a simple trade agreement for all this. The magister belched. "You will always have my support," he said with a knowing smile. "I was very perturbed when Khal Drogo's men came demanding a Targaryen bride for their master. It does not due to deny the Khal his wishes; his khalasar numbers some forty-thousand riders and Pentos is still toothless since Braavos neutered it."

Viserys had heard much of the Dothraki warriors of the farther east; that was what had carried him across the Narrow Sea to Pentos, that was what had made him spend his own money looking for some Targaryan blooded girl in the Stepstones. He would have need of many warriors in the coming days; what better to have than a Dothraki horde of forty thousand. Rumor had it that in an open field, a well-trained Dothraki was worth two mounted knights. "I never asked," he said after a sudden realization, "what does a Dothraki savage want with a woman of Valyrian blood?"

"Khal Drogo styles himself a different kind of warlord," Moptias said. "Whereas other Dothraki wish only to plunder and live openly beneath the stars, the Khal may want something more; perhaps he wants to name himself King of the Dothrakis. He has the largest Dothraki khalasar the world has seen since the One Hundred Years of Blood; surely that has made him ambitious."

Viserys chuckled. "A horselord who wants a crown. How fascinating. As long as I can count on his men when the time comes, I will be happy to give him anything he needs to make himself feel like a King. When is the wedding? I must be returned to Dragonstone in two weeks time for my own nuptials."

"In four days, my lord. I have agreed to host the Khal's wedding; the Dothraki do everything beneath the open sky so I have procured a large tract of land for the ceremony, just a few leagues from here. The Khal has assured me that the gift he promised you in return for the girl will be delivered at the wedding."

"He'd best be sure that it does, or he will know the wrath of the Dragon."

They spoke of much more boring things afterwards. Namely, of trading. Trading in the Narrow Sea had become increasingly dangerous as of late; fighting in the Disputed Lands had hit a trough, and many a sellsword had turned to piracy to fill their bellies. They arranged for a joint task force between Dragonstone and Pentos to help deal with the issue; Pentos had very few warships, as part of the agreement forced on them by Braavos after their last disastrous war. In return, Pentos would reduce taxes on goods coming from Dragonstone and increase those coming from the other Free Cities and the Stormlands. Viserys could only hope that the change would increase seafare to his tiny island; his coffers were in need of filling since he had spent so much looking for the girl.

They spoke for hours on the details; Viserys was hesitant to make promises for Illyro was merely one of a few of Pentos' Magisters. It would not due to make promises if the other party to the agreement had to consult first. The Magister was adamant in assuring that the others would support his decisions.

They finished when the sun began to dip in the sky. "A bedwarmer my lord?"

"Two if you would; preferably new to a man's touch. I will be wed soon and it would not due to catch anything before I laid with my wife."

The Magister was a gracious host. Anything Viserys and his men asked for was given within the hour; this man had the kind of wealth that even in the King might envy. The Magister loved to flaunt his wealth; he claimed often his control of coin gave him more power than any other man in Pentos, and often made comments about being more influential than lords of Westeros; Viserys would smile and agree kindly.

As Viserys saw it, the Magister failed to understand the difference between wealth and power. Magister Illyro had wealth, certainly, but men would only die for him on account of his coin. When that coin ran out, so would the men. For hundreds of years, men had been dying for the honor of being recognized by their Targaryen overlords; that was power. Viserys dreamt fondly of the day when he would show Mopatis the difference.

Throughout the three day stay, Viserys was not allowed to see the woman who had been fetched by his influence and was to be married off to the savage. The Magister hid her jealously, which made Viserys fear that the old fool might have bed her already. The thought agitated him; that might ruin his budding alliance with the horselord.

Viserys finally saw her in their horse drawn solar on the morning of the fourth day, as they made their way out to where they would meet Khal Drogo and his Dothraki horde. He had never seen her; he had not dared bring to her to Dragonstone, where a spy of the court might see her. Even as the King's brother, he would not have survived the political backlash of having a Blackfyre in his home, even if it was a woman.

She was not exceedingly beautiful, but she had the Valryian look about her and that was enough; sharp and chiseled features along with hair that was blond, tinged with white and her eyes were a very dull violet when Viserys would catch her looking at him. She was smitten; he imagined. Did she think she was going to marry him? He resisted a laugh; as if he would ever marry some baseborn girl from an inferior line.

"Do you speak the common tongue, girl? What is your name?"

The girl flinched at the sound of his voice; she looked up meekly at him. "A-A bit, my lord. Orosha, my lord."

It was a bit hard to understand, but Viserys nodded. "Have you met the man that you're to marry?"

The girl opened and closed her mouth three times, but just before Viserys got angry, the Magister spoke in her place. "Khal Drogo did come to lay eyes on her one week past, my lord. He seemed … approving."

The Dothraki camp was a sight to behold; it was a city! Khal Drogo's khalasar had forty thousand mounted fighters; it also had all of their wives, mistresses, children, slaves and horses. In all, there might have been over one hundred thousand savages gathered with an untold number of beasts for labor. Viserys could not help but me impressed; to effectively control a population a fifth the size of King's Landing was no trifle matter. Forty thousand men on horses numbered the amount of men his brother Rhaegar had brought to the Trident to fight Robert Baratheon. Yet, as he looked them over though, dressed in their thin leather vests and horse hair leggings, he could not help but feel disappointed.

"Don't let the savage appearance fool you, my lord," Aurane comforted him. "Dothraki are trained to fight from the moment they're old enough to hold a blade. They have no fear and follow orders better than any man at arms. Imagine having forty-thousand mounted screamers at your back."

The Dothraki had been built of a different mold than other men by the gods. They were generally larger. Their skin was copper without variation, oiled and shining. Their coarse black hair tied into long braids, adorned with various bells and jewels. Khal Drogo himself was of an incredible height; Viserys thought he might have been six inches and six feet. He was muscled and wiry, with a braid so long that it tickled his upper hamstrings. He was anointed in thick oils and covered in bells. Every time he turned his head, the bells on his braid would sing a happy tune.

From their seat just away from the Khal, the Magister spoke. "The Dothraki must cut their braid if they are defeated in battle. The Khal has never been defeated in combat. He inherited this khalasar from his father at just fifteen thousand riders; he's swelled its numbers by killing countless other Khals and taking their men for his own."

"The bastard is impressive," Aurane commented.

The two continued their small talk in that fashion; Viserys kept an ear open for something interesting, but he could not pull his attention away from the wedding. Drogo sat with Orosha to their right, neither looking at each other. The wedding itself as a wild affair. Dothraki drums beat ceaselessly throughout the day, The Dothraki danced without a care; if one could call it dancing, they were like animals in heat, some even fucking there for all to see. There were six fights and four deaths, which made the Magister smile.

"A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair," he said.

When the sun began to fall, and Viserys was eager to leave, it came the time to give the gifts. Many people of note from the Pentos area were present. All the gifts were given to the bride, who would then pass them to the groom. There were gifts of gold and silver, silk and cotton; stranger things as well. Someone gave the pair a box full of venomous snakes, which made Viserys and Aurane laugh at the macabre sight of it all. The Magister gave the pair a belt of golden loops; in the center of each loop was a massive emerald. Viserys himself had had a blade made in the Dothraki style, the handle was studded with rubies. The Khal took it excitedly.

When the party began to die down, for the Khal had given his wife the gift of a white stallion, Illyro whispered in Viserys' ear. "The Khal has had men send your gift to the manse; it will be waiting in your quarters."

Viserys smirked at that; he caught Khal Drogo's eye and raised his cup of wine. The Khal nodded. That was enough for the Lord of Dragonstone. He knew he would have to do much more to garner the Khal's support in the future, but part of their agreement meant five hundred of the Khal's riders would remain a few days ride from Pentos, and would mount a ship west whenever he needed it. The thought of it made Viserys chuckle; how would men civilized men react to the sight of it?

The final hours of the ceremony passed without Viserys' attention. His thoughts were on his own coming wedding. He would be wedding Daenarys Targaryen, his own little sister. Lord Monford Velaryan, whose use of the royal fleet had prevented the North from raising all of its men to fight against the crown during the rebellion, had demanded it. "Bloodlines!" he had screamed to his allies. "If the princess is allowed to marry another, then the Targaryen bloodline will vanish in three generations." Rhaegar and his other allies, tired and on the verge of defeat, had relented.

The prospect excited him. She was the last full-blooded Targaryen woman alive, and she was to be his. So much more would come after this. He had bided his time. He had garnered the right allies. He had done everything he could to make sure Khal Drogo had a woman of some royal blood to pursue whatever it was that he planned to pursue in the east. Rhaegar was edging closer towards deaths door, having never fully recovered from the trashing that Robert Baratheon had given him at the Trident. The time was coming.

Eventually, Khal Drogo put his new wife on a horse and rode off a bit away from the khalasar; they were off to consummate the marriage as Viserys understood it. That was their cue to leave. The Magister made it clear that they would find little hospitality from the rest of the khalasar now that the khal was not present. True to his words, the warriors who weren't too drunk to do so were glaring at them hungrily. They jumped into their carriage and made their way back to the manse.

The festivities left the Dothraki in a good enough mood to resist raiding them on their way back. Viserys strode quickly to his quarters. The two bedwarmers that the magister had given him were tangled in the sheets, waiting for him. He did not give them a second glance. His gaze landed on a massive chest at the foot of the bed; it was worn from thousands of leagues of travel. It had come from the very ends of the earth.

Viserys' hands shook as he unlatched the chest. His heart beat to the rhythm of the Dothraki drums; a war drum, a wedding drum, all one in the same. Drums of victory. The chest creaked open, the hinges rusty from decades of stillness. Viserys Targaryen smiled, and felt the blood rush hot and welcoming to his face and to his loins. Yes, the time was coming at last. The whole of the world would understand the meaning of Fire and Blood.


	3. Chapter 3: Eddard

**Blood and Fire and Ice**

 **Chapter 3**

Eddard Stark

Hard places bred hard people. Ned's father, Rickard Stark, had whispered those words to him as a boy. It had been just months before he was sent to the Eryie to foster with Lord Robert Arryn and before he met Robert Baratheon. Ned had broken fingers training against Winterfell's master-at-arms, and he had cried, but the man had not relented. He had gone to his father, his father with the long and stern face and the eyes as grey as Valyrian steel and he had cried.

"Hard places breed hard people," Rickard had said, the wind carrying his whisper and his form away to the flames.

Ned often thought of those words as he lay freezing in Castle Black; there could be no place on earth harsher than the Wall and the endless and frozen lands that lay above it. Ned often thought of Robert's War fondly in comparison to the thing he had seen far north of the Wall; there were horrors there could not be fully comprehended by normal men. He had learned to fear the shadows of the wild tundra to the north.

"Grip your sword your worthless twat!" Ser Lyn Corbray spat in the courtyard.

Ned stood just a a few meters above the yard, dressed in his thickest robes and watching intently. They had received a new batch of recruits; as had become the norm, the recruits were little more than criminals who had chosen to take the Black over taking death. A man could not be forced to join the Night's Watch, and Ned thought, as he eyed a recruit wearing extremely fine furs and holding his own blade, this was the first time in ten years he had seen a highborn lad join the Watch.

Ser Lyn Corbray, tall, handsome and brutal in demeanor, cared little that the boy was highborn as spat in his face with each word. "Ahhh, and look at you! Do you boys see here? This highborn little twat brought his sword and his own furs. He was raised in a castle, drinking wine and fucking noble girls while you lot scrounged in the mud and trash for meals. Someone have at him!"

Corbray was a brash man, but not a fool. He took the steel and had them fight with dull, blunted iron. The highborn lad, Waymar Royce, was indeed well trained. He was a consecrated southern Knight in the light of the seven and the other recruits, a band of rapers and thieves who had never held proper steel in their hands, could not so much as touch him. Ned chuckled, however, when the boy grew bold enough to try his hand against Ser Corbray.

Ned had fought with Ser Corbray at the Battle of the Bells, where they had crushed Targaryen forces, and at the Battle of the Trident, where Robert Baratheon smashed Prince Rhaegar and a member of the Kingsguard before falling to Barristan the Bold. Corbray had killed a member of the Kingsgaurd himself, and had offered Ned much help as they began their retreat from the rivercrossing to the Twins, where they held out for peace.

Even with age having robbed some of his skill, Ser Corbray smashed a dull sword into Ser Royce's arm, making him drop his steel. Corbray spat into the cold, muddy floor of the courtyard. "Welcome to the Night's Watch! I'll warn you know, Ser Royce, your name and your honors mean nothing here. Once you take your vows, you will all stand equal, thieves, rapists and Knights. Now, out of my sight!"

Ned took the order as well. He made it a point, whenever he was in the castle, to watch new recruits at their work. As First Ranger, he had a significant say where recruits would be placed once they took their vows. Ser Waymar Royce would make a fine Ranger one day, if the desolate wasteland of the Wall did not make him reconsider and go running back south to whatever holdfast he hailed from.

Ned slipped into the lower reaches of the castle, and soon he was stumbling through the dark tunnels beneath it. He made his way to the library, and he found Maester Aemon sitting there, old and frail and blind, yet staring into a fire. The maester's personal assistant sat in the corner of the library and stood to give an awkward bow. Ned gave him a half acknowledging nod.

Prophetic as ever, the maester knew him by his tread. "Lord Ned Stark," whisps of life seemed to flee Aemon's throat as he spoke. "What brings me this pleasure?"

"The man I brought to you, Maester," Ned said, sitting across from Aemon. "Has his condition improved at since the last time we spoke."

The maester's eyes left the fire and and somehow found Ned's face. Ned imagined that Aemon Targaryen could still see shapes, maybe. "I'm afraid not, Lord Stark," he sighed. "The wounds inflicted are deep and … strange. The fact that he made it back here at all is an act of the gods, surely. I would go and pay my final respects, Lord Stark. I do not expect that brother Garth will live another two days."

Ned sighed at the news; it was always a blow to lose a Black Brother, especially in times like these were the lands beyond the wall were increasingly difficult to understand and the southerners were increasingly pulling their support away, but losing Garth and whatever information he had managed to gather on his expedition. Nine good men missing, and one good man at death's door. This was a mistake that would weigh heavily on his shoulders for a good amount of time to come.

"Can you make anything of his last words, Maester?" Ned asked with a faint dash of hope. Garth's garbled words had meant nothing to him, no matter how much he pondered them. He could only hope the master, whose mind was sharpest amongst them despite his old age, could have found a way to unwrap the riddle.

Maester Aemon wheezed; it might have been a chuckle. "He said, till the darkness took him, 'ice', 'blue' and 'death'. I've thought long and hard on these words, Lord Stark, as I'm sure you have. There is much ice and death to be found north of the wall, though I cannot be sure what possessed him him to utter the final term."

Ned took his leave after that; he was not particularly fond of Maester Aemon, though he was loathe to admit. Aemon was a Targaryen; Targaryens had taken too much from him for him to enjoy their presence, even if Aemon had renounced all names and titles decades before Ned was born to join the Night's Watch. He carried the riddle of Garth's final words with him as well. Yes, ice and death were found a plenty north of the wall, where winter was always afoot. But blue …

The mystery followed him until midday when word reached his ears that Garth had passed. He took the news solemnly, and was happy to hear that Lord Steward Bowen Marsh, who was in charge of Castle Black until Lord Commander Mormont returned from the Shadow Tower, planned for his funeral to be that very night. As he waited for the ceremony, he made plans for another ranging. The scale he had in his mind was something he knew would cause the Lord Commander to worry, but it had to be done. No more men could be needlessly lost in small groups out beyond the wall.

The funeral was held after dinner in the main yard. Men of the Night's Watch were buried in a small graveyard, just north of the Wall; this was so that their duty was continued even upon death. No man of the Watch wanted to be buried in the south where the grass was green and the women were distracting. They would remain forever as Watchers on the Wall.

Garth had been a northman, and had followed the old gods. This gave Ned a sense of comfort. The old gods had no septans and septas, so the ceremony was conducted in utter silence. As they piled the dirt onto his former ranger, Ned could not help but think of Robert Baratheon.

They had been so young then, fighting for what they had loved against their enemies. He had never imagined that Robert could die; not Robert who stood a head taller than most men and fought with a hammer so heavy Ned could not lift. Not Robert, who when he wore his stag helmet, looked a god of war made flesh.

But yet, Robert had died and Ned had watched. He cringed, for the clashing of the steel the men being split by his blade were as real to him now as they had been then. He had just killed a man who stood in the way of his advance to help his friend; maybe not even a man, just a boy, but he had been a boy too. He had seen Prince Rhaegar lying in the ford, his chest plate caved and eyes glazed, his rubies scattered about; for a moment he had dared to think they were victorious. It was not so.

Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerald Hightower were the finest of knights in those time; only Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne stood finer. Barristan was lost in the mayhem and Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Oswell came first, fast and nimble, then Hightower. Whent fell to Robert's hammer, for Ned was clashing suddenly with Hightower; Robert was wounded and barely standing. Then, just as the Old Bull Gerald fell, Barristan erupted from the chaos and slid his thin blade into Robert's under arm and through his heart.

What had happened after was a blur; steel and blood and flight. He did not remember how, in the madness of it all, they had managed to retreat to the high walls of the Twins. They all had looked to him; the son of House Stark. Men from the Vale, from the Riverlands and from the North. They had wanted to continue the fight. Robert haunted Ned in his dreams now, calling him craven for surrendering. But he had tired of it all. Brandon would have kept fighting, he knew. But had not the spirit. News came from the south that Lyanna had died. With no one to place on the throne and his sister dead, what was there left to fight for? He was of the North; that ragged chair of rusted swords they called a crown had no allure for him.

A ranger stepped forward to give Garth his final words. He spoke of honor and glory, yet those terms meant nothing to them. A man of the Night's Watch earned glory and fought for the realm, not for honor. They wore black and nothing else so that they could be easily forgotten. That stung Ned a bit. He would be forgotten; just another footnote in the long history of the wall.

The man said his final words and the Black Brothers said in unison, "And now his Watch has ended."

The next three days were a flurry of activity for Ned. He was twice swamped by work. First, preparations needed to be made for the next ranging. The Watch was composed of just over fifteen hundred men at the moment, most of them at Castle Black. If the Old Bear would allow it, he would take two hundred men. Their numbers would keep them safe; no wildling clan north of the Wall would trifle with two hundred Black Brothers. Routes were planned, men were chosen, and he argued vigorously with Bowen Marsh about the supplies they would need; it was no easy task to feed two hundred men for a ranging of the length that Ned planned.

Secondly, was a trip he would be taking to Winterfell at dawn. Since Ned had taken the Black ten years ago, a part of the terms of his surrender to the crown, his brother Benjen had become Lord Protector of Winterfell and Warden of the North until his son Robb, would come of age and take the seat himself. Robb's sixteenth nameday had come and gone; he would be headed south to be given his titles and to meet his betrothed, the King's daughter, Rhaenys.

It was a testament to the strength of the rebellion, the concessions they had gotten from the King. Ned had learned well of rebellions of days past, of how the Targaryens had drawn and quartered the losers or fed them to Dragons. If only Robert had held his ground for ten more seconds, he would often seethe. Yet still; he had to be thankful. His wife lived well at Winterfell, their son had grown into the seat of his forefathers and his younger sister Sansa was nearly a woman.

Ned made sure that his plans would be passed to the Lord Commander before leaving the Watch for the south. It was a week's hard riding to Winterfell; he took only three men with him, so that the trip would be as fast as possible. The wide open plains of the south soothed him in a way that the plains and tundras north of the wall could not. All of the beauty and none of the horror.

Along they way, they only stopped at Last Hearth, home of his old friend Greatjon Umber. The man was massive and rowdy and constantly drunk, but he had been the most loyal of the Northern lords when Ned had went south to fight in Robert's War. The Umbers had been first to raise their banners in his name and he was thankful for it. They greeted him with a small feast. He and Greatjon traded war stories; they generally told the same story, for Greatjon had not been far from Ned's side in any battle.

The trip to Winterfell from from Last Hearth was farther than the Wall to Last Hearth, but it was faster; the Kingsroad was better maintained farther from the Wall. It took them just three days before Winterfell was suddenly on the horizon. Ned's breath hitched at the sight of it. It was a sight to behold, bleak and grey in the crisp evening air. Winterfell was the oldest castle in Westeros; the Kings of Winter had ruled it from it for thousand of years. Starks had ruled from this very seat since before Dragons were even born in Old Valyria.

Wintertown, sitting on the bottom of the hill below the castle, was alight with activity. The Starks words were, "Winter is Coming," and the people knew it well. A cold wind was blowing in from beyond the Wall, and soon the north would see its chilly autumn flurries. Nine of years of summer were drawing to a melodramatic conclusion. The people of the town, despite their livelihoods, stopped to greet them. Black Brothers were always welcome in Winterfell.

They were waiting for him at the main gate.

There was no conception of heaven for those who followed the old gods, but Ned understood the concept well and he knew this is what his heaven would look like. Benjen stood at the head of them, tall and lean with his rough dark brown mane as was custom for northmen. Catelyn stood to his side, with her auburn hair and her gentle blue eyes. Both Robb and Sansa took after their mother, with auburn hair and ocean eyes, but Robb was tall and square-jawed like a northman; he had Brandon's build, Ned thought.

Ned bowed. "My ladies, my lords."

Benjen let out a hoarse laugh. "There's no southerners here to make you bow, Ned. Welcome home!"

Ned took the moment to embrace Catelyn. "I have missed you my lord," she whispered in his ear. Her touch was not overly warm, however. Their love had dulled no doubt; ten years in waiting could do that to a relationship.

Next he walked over to Robb, who had Brandon's grin as well as his build. "My, what a man you have grown into my son," he said, grabbing Robb by the shoulders. "Would that I could have been here to see you grow into the Lord of Winterfell. How well do you swing a sword? I have a gift for you."

Robb smiled wide and charming, it reached well into his eyes. "Better than most father; maybe we should have a go in the training yard. You can see for yourself how much I've improved."

Ned grinned and patted his boy on the shoulders. "Of course, on the morrow. Let's see if Ser Rodrick and Benjen have taught you well." He stepped over to Sansa and resisted a gasp; she was nearly his height; tall and beautiful. "You were yay high when I lost saw you sweetling," he made a ridiculously short gesture with his hand. "You're mother has told me much of your beauty in her letters, yet I see now there are no words in our language to describe it."

Sansa blushed deeply and curtseyed. "You honor me father."

"Enough of honors," Benjen said. He put an arm around his elder brother and turned towards the greater castle. "We've prepared a feast in your honor brother! Come, we can catch up. You'll tell me us all about the horrors of the lands beyond the wall and you will see your children grow through the years with our words."

Feasts in Winterfell were modest affairs compared to the decadence of the south, yet the years at Castle Black had nearly made Ned forget the taste of fine food. The duck and the pork was to die for, but it was the northern oat pies that made him melt; they were specific to the area around Winterfell, and he had grown fat and succulent eating these as a boy. They reminded him of Lyanna, for at times she would forget her status as a lady and help in the kitchens, making the pies with her deft fingers.

Ned told them what he could of the Wall; what he knew they could understand. How could he tell them that at times beyond the Wall, they would find entire wilding villages slaughtered and hung from the trees by their intestines? Worse yet, how was he to explain the bitter cold of those lands? Even Benjen, who was old enough to know at least one harsh northern winter, could not fathom how the cold could get so intense that death seemed warm in comparison; those stories meant nothing to them.

Sansa's tale was an interesting one. Her first moonblood had come some months ago; she blushed and Robb blanched when Catelyn mentioned it. She was a Tully at heart, Ned thought. She was a proper lady like her mother; she even followed the Seven, the gods of the southerners. Like everything around him, Ned could not help but think of Lyanna. Lyanna had had the wolf's blood. She had hated to sew and knit, she could fight with a sword as well as any of her brothers and she would be damned if she curtseyed; he had loved her for that, and so had Robert.

"I knitted this dress myself," Sansa said with a giggle. "Jeyne Poole said the green is too drab, but I think it works well with my hair."

"Jeyne is not half the beauty you are and she is much less skilled," Catelyn said. Jeyne and her father were somewhere in the hall, dining proudly for the return of their Lord, not-Lord.

Robb sat at the head of the table; he was named Lord of Winterfell on his sixteenth name day and Benjen had gladly given up the seat. He looked every bit the Lord of Winterfell, despite his Tully looks. Ned, darkly, thought that Robb might indeed be Brandon's son. He exuded a young confidence and his smile was charming. He would make a great leader of men.

Robb spoke of his training, relaying to his father things Ned might already know from their letters. He claimed that since his father had left, when he had been a mere six, he had been training to become the lord Ned would have been. He had practiced daily with his weapons, and he had spent many moons traveling to the various lords of the North, assuring them that their lord to be was every bit a son of Bran the Builder as Rickon Stark had been. He even said that he had made a particular effort to keep the alliances that Ned had cultivated with the clans in the mountains north of Winterfell.

"Aye, he has been busy," Benjen said. "I fear my brief tenure as Lord Protector of Winterfell and Warden of North has been a sham. Robb took over as soon as you stepped off north for the Watch. I am just Warden of the North now, but that as well will soon pass to him. The North will be better for it."

The thought made Ned frown; both of his children would be heading south for Daenarys Targaryen's wedding. Robb would be named Warden of North after swearing fealty to the King there. He would return North as the man he had always been meant to be, with his future bride at his side, Princess Rhaeyns Targaryen. Sansa would remain in King's Landing; when she came of age, she would marry Prince Aegon Targaryen and she would be a Queen. Ned scowled at the thought; the Starks were Kings and Queens in all but name in the north. What need had they of that twisted iron chair in the south that Robert had so badly desired?

The thought of future made Sansa blush red as her hair. "Oh, the wedding will be grand, won't it?" she was just a little girl, they all thought, she did not know. "And we will meet the prince and princess! Can you believe it Robb? You will be the Warden of North, and one day, I will be Queen."

She was to young to understand, they all knew. She was too young to see their betrothals for what they really were; penance. Rhaegar Targaryen and his mad father had spilled more Stark blood than any Targaryen King ever before them; it had caused an enmity that could last till the end of time. Rhaegar had paid for his and his father's madness by surrendering his daughter, and by ensuring that one day, Stark blood would sit the Iron Throne.

The feast went on for hours more; the drink flowed freely and soon they were dancing and laughing and dancing to the tune of the northern songs. Catelyn and Sansa disappeared first to their chambers, and then Robb was carried away he was so drunk.

"Come on, Ned," Benjen said. "I'll show you to your chambers. Best to rise early tomorrow and nimble up; Robb will want his spar!"

Ten years had done nothing to dull Ned's memory of Winterfell. He knew where they were headed; he knew also that he should tell his younger brother that he would sleep in the guests quarters. Instead he said; "What will you do when Robb becomes Warden of the North? Stay on as his advisor."

Benjen shook his head in the darkness. "Robb was not inflating the tales he told you; he has spent ten years now learning the people of the North and gaining their trust. Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin and Lady Catelyn will serve him better than I ever could. No, brother, when this unwanted burden is stripped from me, I will join you at the Wall."

Ned laughed at that. "Do you remember as children after we sparred with Brandon? He'd beat us bloody, and we would cry to father about how we would runaway from and join the Watch. I said once to him 'I'm not marrying some woman and fighting for Bran! I'm going to the Watch to fight the Others!'"

"He gave us both a whipping that day," Benjen sniggered. Then he sighed. "Aye … but then we grew, and suddenly it wasn't a joke. Bran was the one meant to rule. He had the build, the smile, the swordplay; he could make any man follow him. I see a lot of him in Robb; at times I think the old gods may be giving Bran the chance he never had." They reached the room. "Sleep well, Ned."

Benjen vanished into the dark corridors of Winterfell. Eddard took a deep and long breath and entered. Immediately he averted his eyes, for Catelyn was tangled in the furs, naked and glorious. "Forgive me, my lady."

"Oh, Ned," she chuckled. "You never change. Come and join me."

He stripped and joined her; there was a nagging worry in the back of his mind that this was dishonorable. Men of the Night's Watch were not supposed to bed women, though that was not how the oath really read. Even worse, he thought, he might dishonor her. She was lady, sister to the Lord of Riverrun and he was a landless, nameless and futureless man of the Watch. But he loved her, and she loved him, so they tangled together happily.

Catelyn drew a finger down his bare chest. "Do you remember those few days after the war, when you found me with Robb at Winterfell?"

Ned nodded, letting himself sink into the furs. Winterfell was lavishly warm; the walls were heated by spring water under the castle and yet still a fire burned in the furnace not far from them. The warmth, he thought, was more a sin than the woman's touch. "Aye … they were sad days, yet I do not think I have ever been happier."

Catelyn beamed. "I tried not to love you, then. You were returned from war, defeated. You'd promised our son and any future daughter I would bare to the Targaryens … and you told me you would be leaving in but six short years. But, how could I help myself? You Stark men are so charming in your dark way. You smiled and ruled and raised our son and how could I help but love you?"

"I feel the same," Ned said simply.

Catelyn chuckled. "Can you believe that the time has gone so fast? Robb will return with a wife to bear his children. Sansa will go south, only to return on the odd visit."

The realization hit Ned hard. He felt a question bubble to his lips; he was ashamed to think it but he could have no shame before this woman. "What will you do? Will you return to Riverrun once there is a new Lady Stark?"

She caught him in a deep kiss by surprise. He felt his throat leap to his chest. The strength in his arms failed him for a moment, but it returned and he pulled her closer than he had ever held anything in his life. It was said often on the Wall that love was the death of duty. But how could duty exist without this love? How could he bare to stand watch in that desolate wasteland if he did not know that she was here, warm and safe?

Catelyn pulled away from the kiss for just a moment. Her ocean blue gaze clashed with his eyes of pure, grey, steel. "Never," she said. "I will stay here forever. I will help the young woman adjust to life here and I will raise our grandchildren. You will come once a year to see them, and when you do we will make love to make the Maiden swoon."

He agreed to every word. Eddard Stark was, if anything, a man of his word.

Ned woke the next morning before the roosters began their call; it had been a habit of his even before the regimented lifestyle of the Watch. He kissed Catelyn gently on the cheek and searched diligently for Robb's gift. The box had been carried into the room during the feast; it was long and rectangular and surely Robb must have known what it was as soon as he saw it. Inside was a large thing wrapped in white clothe.

Ned carried it to the godswood. The godswood was just as he remembered it; solemn and peaceful. He had always thought that he could hear the old gods here. The old gods were not like the Seven that Catelyn and Sansa worried, the god with seven faces. These gods had no faces and no words, no scriptures and no demands. They were simply glad for existence. He sat on a rock near the pond, wet a rag in the water and unfurled Robb's gift.

Ice was a massive sword, meant to be wielded by big northern men and held in two hands. The steel was smoky gray and folded. No one knew how old the blade was; it had been handed down from Lord Stark to Lord Stark for centuries before men began to write their histories. It sang as he washed it. Countless centuries and still the blade held its edge; it had saved him at the Trident and he could only pray to the silent gods in the woods that it would protect his son.

It had been dark when Ned had sat on the rock; Benjen found him when the sky was a myriad of colors, a canvas of some great artist in the heavens. "Come on then, all are gathered for breakfast and Robb wants to spar as soon as its over."

Breakfast was a meek and quiet affair. The training yard was much more interesting. The men of the castle had gathered eagerly to see the old and young Lord Stark at their battle. Ser Rodrick Cassel, the castle's master-at-arms, gave them his finest practice swords; they were blunted but sturdy, and a solid blow from one would bruise and might break a bone.

Robb was fast and strong; Ned thought it fitting, for he had named his son for Robert Baratheon and there had never lived a faster and stronger man. He would rain blows down on his father unceasingly, constantly gaining ground. Ned had to circle to avoid being smashed; the years had taken a bit of his strength and more than a bit of his quickness, but he found an angle and began his own attack.

They exchanged blows for what might have been ten minutes; Ned's arms began to grow heavy, yet Robb pressed forward as if he would never tire. The advantages of youth were many, but experience had its own. Ned saw his opening; he parried a high swing and buried the tip of Robb's sword into the dirt. Then he punched his son square in the face. He held back on the force, lest he scar his boy, but the shock made Robb loose his sword and fall to his butt.

Robb glared, astonished and angered at the blunt sword at his throat. "No fair!"

Ned helped him to his feet. "A trick I learned when you were but a babe. I'm sure you'll ride into battle one day, gods be good for not a long time, but in that madness, there are no rules of fair play. You did well. Believe it or not, I once killed a member of the Kingsgaurd. I am no stranger to the blade."

Robb dropped his head and nodded, as if admonished. That made Ned smile; humility was a hard trait to find amongst any lord, let alone a sixteen year old up who was now to rule nearly half of Westeros. Ned gestured to one of the Black Brothers; the man scuttled off and returned moments later with the massive wooden chest that bore Ice.

There was a hush in the area; Ned briefly caught the eye of Jory Cassel, Captain of the Household Guard and smiled at the astonishment and wonder in the man's eyes. They had all waited for this moment for decades. By all the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, Robb Stark was the Lord of Winterfell and liege lord of the North. But the North had its own laws, older laws. A Stark would always rule, and a Stark could not rule till he wielded the ghosts of his father and forefathers. Robb was stiff with excitement.

First, Ned handed him the scabbard. Then, he pulled Ice from the chest and a cold wind blew over the castle. Ned fell to a single knee before his son, and held the blade in to hands. "Lord Robb of House Stark, I present to you, Ice. This blade had felled a thousand enemies, and has stood guard over the North for a thousand years. May it protect you and your line from this day till the last day."

Ned then sheathed Ice in its scabbard, and a massive applause erupted through the castle.

"Stark! Stark!" the men yelled in glory. "For the North! For the North!"

Ned embraced his son, and suddenly felt a whole man. He remembered briefly the bitterness that had taken him in his last few days at the Wall; he had mourned the life he could have had, had Robert not fallen in that godsforsaken battlefield. Yet, it seemed that all was well now. House Stark would rule for another thousand years, his grandchildren would make sure of it. He would return to his post on the Wall, and he would Watch.

Duty demanded that he abandon his love for those who dwelled in the realms of men. But how could he abandon that which gave him strength to stand?


End file.
